


There and Back

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	There and Back

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

There and Back by A. Leigh-Anne Childe

29 Dec 1997  
There and Back  
by A. Leigh-Anne Childe

Krycek/Skinner slash. Sort of.   
Sequel (sort of) to 'The Night Visitor'.  
NC-17, I guess.   
One thing you *can* pin me down on, besides a wrestling mat,  
is that these characters, sad to say, belong to the Cruel powers that be.  
Angst free of charge, batteries not included. Archive wherever you like,  
MKRA-related pages, yes, please. All commas and whatnot are mine; they are  
all deeply treasured, each and every one.   
Feedback, always lovely. 

* * *

There and Back  
by A. Leigh-Anne Childe

Well, look at me. This isn't a picture I ever saw myself framed in. And the frame itself has more of those gilded curlicues than I'm used to, more frills and frippery. I've never been anyone's fancy man before; I'm not the fancy type, or wouldn't have said so. Fancy man--fancy boy, more like. I know my place in the food chain.

Gilded cage--that's what you'd call it. I'm just a one-winged bird in a golden cage. Yeah. It's a clean cage, I'll say that. Why shouldn't I make myself comfortable, I've had enough of mud, thanks. And oil and chill and the fucking stench of rancid fatback and ancient field latrines. Been there, done. . .too much, thanks. Not what I expected when I signed on the dotted line. Thought I was harder than what I am. Everyone's flesh is soft, and even a bone gives under steel.

Pity, pity. Hold on a sec, let me find my self-mockery and kick this weepy puppy shit back in the closet where it can keep my aborted inner child company. Yeah, okay. You know, I went to college. I went through the proper channels. I had a life. Jesus, the look on your face--well, I'm just imagining it. Fox Mulder, mankind's moral compass. Give the man a blindfold and watch the arrow of certitude spin round and around in the darkness. ..and yet it always ends up pointing true north. How does he do that. How do you do that, Foxy? 

Let me refill my glass.

Oh, you'd have an eyeful if you could see me now, green-eyed, blue-eyed, fair-haired boy. I'm lazy in my lair, in my cage--my nest! Let me not laugh, *god*, my fucking love nest. That is too funny. Mm. Yeah, some days I don't even put on my feathers, just lounge around in my all together, which isn't completely all *together*, but it'll have to do. I'd like to see your face when you got that first good look at the results of my stupid-ass maneuverings and manipulations. God knows what I thought I was doing, playing spy versus spy with you, but here we arm. . .wow, Freudian slip. Here we are. Here I am. Most days, it feels like you're within spitting distance on a good wind. The boy next door in sunny downtown Alexandria. Okay, you're not that close, but I swear, Mulder, I can feel your Aurora Borealis aura from a crow-flying mile. Try this on for size--I can still hear you saying, about some desktop back-burner shit case you couldn't let go--you're saying to me, "In Christian symbolism the crow is the allegory of solitude". Lo and behold, Mulder, the dutiful tape recorder I kept running all those days of our limited partnership--it recorded every word. 

Press the playback, presto. Echo of Mulder. Echo. 

Oh, yeah, I can see the look on your face. Too well. You can get that look off your face, asshole. Don't think I can't deal with this. I'm doing a lot better than you ever would, you, the world's walkingest basket case. Talk about inner fucking child--look at you--you've got your mummified inner kid shrunken up and withered around your neck like some cannibal's dessert. Or is that your sister. 

No. . .it's okay, Mulder. I've seen worse. 

He said that to me. 

Man, oh man--I'd *really* like to see your face--I'd like to be the snake popping out of the box at your surprise party. Assistant Director, Skinner, *sir*. What a good boy you are. You have no fucking clue. Do you, Mulder? Do you even know you don't have a clue, though, that's the question. Key to all knowledge, that's what it is, Mulder, knowing what you don't know. As you once said to me.

I know you've had a cock up your ass. . .I know because I put it there. What you didn't know. . .what you don't know was I was fucking the big dog, too. Think he must have smelled it on me, don't you think? The scent of spunk. Maybe he smelled *you*, on me. That would explain a lot, wouldn't it? A man like that, he doesn't act without good reason, even his dick stands up on command, and why's he gonna trifle with a piece of punk like me, when he could have Fox Mulder roasting on a spit over a slow burn? Hey, but maybe he likes dark meat, so to speak, what do you think, Mulder; meat that's turned a little, got that high, gamey whiff. Got the taint on it. That's me, Foxfire. Gamey, high, and certifiably tainted.

He likes it. Let me give you the sly eye and see what you make of that. You don't believe it; you don't want to believe. You'd never say, "Tell me I'm the only one", would you, baby? But, god, what a sucker you are for a few tight squeezes on the windpipe and that bone-deep tickle, the boning knife in your ass carving you to pieces. Good thing I left when I did, you were all set to go sweet on me. You're a strange man, though, Mulder. Weirdly intuitive, we can all see that. I still go flat-out amazed when I think of how you brought me to his apartment, handing me over like a doorprize. If you knew now what you don't know, well, you'd probably get that hurt bitter sneer and accuse us of fucking like weasels the moment you were out the door. Yeah, sure. Let me reassure you, Mulder, it was a cold night. This was not a man who wanted to be within distance of my wheedling, conniving tongue, let me tell you. God knows what I could have talked him into, if he'd given me the chance. Let me grin wickedly at you and let you wonder. You should wonder. Look at me now.

Walter Skinner's toyboy. How's that for a kick in the face. Oh, now, don't be jealous, stud. You'd always be my number one draft pick. Maybe. Then again maybe I'm getting a taste for rough dick in my ripening old age. You want to know how good he does it? I'll bet you do. 

I'll bet you do. . .let's just say nature compensates; a surly social demeanor turns to gold between the sheets--oh, but *you* knew that. Yeah, maybe I am getting a taste for it. I haven't been ridden to a lather like this in. . .a while. He can make me moan like you never did. I may be a bit short on the big insights; it's not every day I turn the savvy Mulder-mirror of psychoanalysis on myself, okay. But I know the burn. I'd like you to see the look on *my* face mornings after the blitzkrieg--you know what a blitzkrieg is, Mulder? The war of lightning. Oh--it's *better* than that. Mornings when I can barely sit down, and when I do it hurts so fucking good all I want to do is call him and force him back and bring him to a raging fucking storm until he slaps me against the wall and makes me want to scream. Until I do scream, Mulder. Did that a few times, tricked him back, pushed him to a fury and gave us both what we wanted, me still naked and dripping with him, him unzipping just enough to ram the missile home. Lock and load. Yeah, but most mornings, I just sit at my kitchen table eating cereal, gritting my teeth, ignoring my hard-on, feeling it like a fucking tooth-ache, but not wanting to jack off because it wouldn't be good enough. 

You ever had it so good? Mm, well. It has its moments. He brings me Thai food; told him I liked it. He rubbed my shoulders once. That was good. ..once he. . .once, he brought me a book that he'd bought on his way in. Just on a fucking whim, some mystery. I mean, he gives me money. He doesn't have to be buying me fucking books. He just did. 

Yeah, well. So what. So what, right? Is what you're thinking, I'll bet. Big deal. What the hell am I doing here, that's what you want to know. . .except you'd rather see me behind reinforced steel bars, or swinging from a rope. So you tell me. So you've said. Gotcha, Mulder. Capisce. 

Someday soon I need to buy a decent print for these eight white walls. I'm more or less counting just the important walls. White walls, and a picture of wildflowers over the couch. Magenta and pink. Hey, Mulder, you think these are my colors? No? But buggers can't be choosers, right? Look, Mulder, look at my VCR. Look at my library books, my laptop--"be careful with that", he said--but he meant be careful what I went looking for. He doesn't trust my hacking talents, thinks they'll hunt me down. He worries about me. . .I think. . .yeah, I can just see the look on your face, Mulder. Why don't you spare me. When I need you, I'll let you know. Give you a call. You're just a phone call away. Bet you didn't know that. Did you.

End.


End file.
